


365 Days

by clairefraser



Category: Outlander (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M, Minor spoilers for Clanlands, NSFW
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:21:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27365737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clairefraser/pseuds/clairefraser
Summary: Sometimes the stars align, it just takes a moment or two for those involved to catch up.
Relationships: Caitriona Balfe/Sam Heughan
Comments: 20
Kudos: 99





	365 Days

**Author's Note:**

> I don't usually add author's notes, but there's a few mentions of Cait's husband and I would like to reiterate that this is a work of fiction. Please don't read it if that bothers you. There are very minor and vague spoilers for Clanlands. This was written in the span of 8 hours after I listened to the Clanlands audio book for the first time, it is not edited.

**Day 1**

_I thought I'd known heartbreak before, but nothing I'd felt on this day could compare to any other._

**Day 45**

His hand _aches._

Of all the things in life he could complain of, he chooses to fixate on this; the cramping of each muscle, the way the pen digs into his skin. There are callouses on his fingers, they've been there for decades but he feels them more than ever.

The world is falling to pieces and he's here, thinking about his fucking hand, wrist protesting from the repetitive motion of scrawling out his name across his life's work; a career spanning more than twenty years, summed up neatly, encompassed within the hardcovers, protected by a flimsy paper jacket. 

His hand slips by the one hundred and seventy second copy, earning him a scowl from his management, telling him tersely to focus. He considers adding an extra note beneath the ruined signature, but is interrupted by the buzzing of his phone before pen meets paper.

"I'll keep this one," he mutters, setting it aside, ignoring the glares as he retrieves his phone. He swears he'd turned off all notifications before setting foot in the room, knowing the process would be a lot faster if he had no distractions. 

A simple click before the device even leaves his pocket;

An instinctive swipe before he even glances at the screen;

There are a dozen missed calls, twice that of emails and texts, and it takes him a second to locate the message that had triggered the alert.

When he sees it, he wonders why he hadn't realised immediately.

_Caitríona Balfe._

He remembers a time when her details had been saved under a different name; there'd been several incarnations over the years, but one he remembers above the rest.

_The Wife._

They'd been drunk together, not an uncommon past time in the early days, after hours on end in the freezing rain and wind. Whisky was a quick way to warm their bellies and bring forth momentary joy. She'd snorted when he showed her, thoroughly pissed and completely out of it when she changed his name in her phone.

_Sam Huge One._

It had been easy then, flirting and laughing, going pink in the face while draping an arm over her shoulder, nuzzling her curls and breathing her in. She was _his_ in a way, his co-star, his partner.

_His everything._

But things change, shifting with the sands of time. His love for her had grown to encompass every inch of his heart. Whatever she had felt then, behind the coy smiles and teasing gazes, had quickly vanished. She'd found stability, happiness, and who was he to deny her what she deserved.

Who was he to begrudge her the things he couldn't promise her?

He's procrastinating;

His hand still aches and he has hours left of scribbling an almost undecipherable representation of his name onto _God only knows_ how many copies of his book. 

He's scared;

They haven't spoken, not since _that_ night. He'd betrayed his own morals, she'd betrayed her marriage vows and there'd been an unspoken promise to never speak of it again.

_Forty-five days._

When he'd stripped her bare, held her in his arms and explored every inch of her body. She'd been crying, they were both beyond drunk, and he regrets the circumstances, wishes he'd had better self-control. He doesn't regret what happened between them; he'd yearned it for years, to touch her, taste her, feel her come apart around him.

She'd cried out his name and in that moment, he'd felt the missing piece of his heart click into place.

They'd curled around one another that night, whispered slurred words of affection and drunken declarations, but come morning, lapsed into an uneasy silence. He knew it, from the way she clinically dressed, pulling on her pants, _sans underwear_ (he'd torn the lacy knickers in his hurry to undress her). Their friendship, teetering on the brink from the day she introduced her _other half_ to him, had been utterly destroyed.

How could they go back to normal now that he knew how she looked, how she sounded when she fell apart? Now that he'd had a taste, known the sensation of _making love_ to a woman, nothing like the quick shags he'd had over the years.

He's uncertain;

More so than he's been in so long, when he musters up the courage to open the message. His fingers are trembling (he tells himself it's because his hand is tired from signing the books of course). 

_We need to talk._

Four simple words with a sense of foreboding like he's never felt before. 

His mind, _his traitorous mind_ , jumps to the worst possible conclusion, even though the logical side of him screams that he's being irrational. She wouldn't leave the show because of it, would she? It had been the sole reason he'd held back from taking the final step all those years ago, fearing the repercussions, the fallout, should things end badly.

He’d followed his heart and now…

_Christ._

He pushes aside all thoughts, all emotions, shoves his phone back into his pocket and tries to forget, just for a bit. Goes back to his monotonous task, signs till his hand is cramping so badly it takes all of his concentration to ignore the pain. 

It’s a distraction, and it works. 

He walks out of there, the ruined book tucked under his arm and resolves to go and see Caitríona the next morning. Her message to him is left unanswered, just as she’d left him.

_“I love you. I know it means nothing to you, but no one deserves to walk around, living a lie.”_

She’d buttoned her shirt, pulled on her shoes, smoothed back her hair and collected her purse. 

She’d left him, sitting there in his hotel room, sheets pooled around his hips, sleep still in his eyes.

His heart;

Cleaved in two.

**Day 46**

Her stomach is _revolting._

It’s not unusual, hasn’t been for the past two weeks, but it’s grown a hundred times worse since yesterday. She lies, curled up on the sofa, knees tucked beneath her chin and tries to just breathe, tells herself that she’ll be fine.

That _they’ll_ be fine. 

She tries not to cry. It feels like that’s all she’s been doing, that and sitting slumped over on the bathroom floor, clammy skin pressed against the ceramic of the toilet. 

Her eyes are tightly shut now; the darkness helps a little, tricks her mind into thinking she’s unconscious. As much as she’d like to lie here and just sleep her days away, she has commitments, she needs to take care of herself. But she’s exhausted, drained of energy and sick; sick of _everything_.

She’s a smidge away from dozing off when there’s a none-too-gentle pounding at her door, which brings forth a none-too-gentle pounding in her head. Groaning, she forces herself to sit up, _very slowly_. The last time she’d moved too quickly she’d wound up almost blacking out, barely catching herself on the arm of her sofa before collapsing. She has half a mind to tell them to fuck off and leave her to her misery, but she drags her sorry arse to the door anyway. 

Without a second thought or a second glance to check that she’s decent to receive company, she throws the door open, adopting the most severe resting bitch face she can fathom. It quickly fades when her mind catches up to her motions, the sight sending a wave of shock through her body. 

_Sam._

He’s standing there, arms crossed and hands tucked, a shoddily wrapped package in his grasp, an expression of almost concerning neutrality on his face. His air of nonchalance begins to morph as he looks her up and down, taking in her messy hair, sallow skin having lost its pallor, gaunt and haggard. 

She can see him physically bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep from commenting on her complexion.

"I didn't expect to see you," she mutters, acutely aware of how hoarse her voice is. Despite the tea and water, her throat still burns, irritated by the acid and bile.

"Thought I'd bring you your copy in person," he responds, gesturing vaguely to the package, which she now realises is _book_ shaped.

Nodding, with little else to say while they're standing there, out in the open, she quickly ushers him inside, locking the door behind them. He's not shy about exploring her space, eyes darting around the room with mild interest. She gestures towards the sofa where she'd been curled up earlier, waiting for him to take a seat before she ducks into the kitchen, fetching an empty glass and the bottle of gin she'd set aside weeks ago.

_Not so foolish after all, was it Balfe?_

Sam has made himself quite at home when she returns, his body sunken into the cushions, casually flipping through the now _unwrapped_ book. 

"Isn't the point of wrapping a present for the recipient to open it?" she queries with a soft smile, quietly nudging his leg with her foot so she can pass by. He doesn't respond right away, once again looking her up and down, brows pinched.

She cracks open the bottle, pouring a generous double shot out and then sets it on the table, waiting for him to help himself. He offers her one last quizzical expression before picking up both the glass and the bottle.

"Looks even better in person," he comments, before bringing the glass up to his nose for a quick whiff. Just the thought of alcohol makes her stomach turn, and she swallows, trying not to inhale too deeply. 

"Thank you for your help," she manages.

"Always."

They lapse into a comfortable silence, all things considered, and she sits, legs tucked beneath her bottom, gauging his reaction. He maintains eye contact with her as he takes his first sip, face schooled of any emotions. She quirks one eyebrow, tilting her head slightly to one side and he breaks, grinning.

"This is fantastic."

"Quite the compliment coming from you."

His smile only widens. 

"You deserve _all_ the praise. Why am I the only one drinking, surely you deserve to taste the fruits of your labour."

He takes another sip and then makes to offer her the glass, still half-filled with crystal clear liquid. 

"I can't."

She sees the way his mood changes. 

It's instantaneous.

His eyes darken, his entire body going rigid as he tersely sets the glass and bottle back onto the table before leaning in closer to her. 

"Are you afraid to get drunk around me?" he whispers.

She laughs at that, brushing the question off, having neither the patience nor clarity of mind to engage in a conversation that will inevitably lead to an argument. No, she pauses, looking down at her lap and then back up at him, holding his gaze.

Staring into his _soul._

And then she tears the bandage off, skin and all.

"I'm pregnant."

She hadn't dared imagine how he might react, knowing that speculating and double guessing herself would only lead to an outcome where he found out the news from someone else, or _worse_ , the media. He's frozen in place but she can see the cogs in his head turning, knows he's processing his thoughts. 

_At least he hadn't fled immediately._

_Or passed out._

After a moment or two or maybe more; time is a construct after all, he smiles.

She sees right through it.

It's the same one he wears before he's had his coffee in the morning, in a foul mood but still not wanting to affect others around him. The one he adopts when asked uncomfortable questions in interviews. His default expression when posing for photos on the red carpet.

"Congratulations."

He's always been better at reading her than the other way around, but even she can tell when he's not truly sincere. His shoulders are stiff, his fingers drumming forcefully against his knee and she pushes back her instinct to snap at him. Wrapping her arms around herself, her fingers dig into the fabric of her jumper. 

"Tony must be thrilled," he continues, apparently sending she doesn't quite know how to respond. 

She does laugh then, cold and bitter and shakes her head.

"We've separated."

It doesn't garner quite the reaction she anticipates. She sees the change in his mood;

his nostrils flare,

clenches his jaw,

_clenches his fists,_

skin quickly flushing in _anger_.

"That bastard! Leaving you pregnant and alone?"

She has a feeling that if she just sits back and does nothing, he may actually hunt her soon-to-be ex-husband down and beat him to a pulp. As satisfying as the sight may be, given the awful row the two of them had gotten into right before their separation, she has no desire to have any ties to the man. She leans forward, resting one hand on his knee, casting her gaze to her now empty ring finger.

"I left him."

The anger dissipates in a heartbeat. 

Fades into _confusion?_

"Caitríona…"

_"Why?"_ it seems he wants to ask, to know. Is it because of him, or something else? His movements now are careful, hesitant, _withdrawn_.

One hurdle passed, now for another.

"Are you happy?"

He shakes his head and then holds his hands up in defense, as if realising how his actions might appear. 

"Of course I'm happy for _you_. _You'll_ be a wonderful mother."

_You._

Not _we._

Not _us._

_Oh God._

It had been so easy to imagine Sam with a child; he loved kids, got along with them so well. He had more patience for the fussy babies on set than she did, a giant and a giant softie at heart. Even if the relationship between them was beyond the point of no return, she'd thought he'd want _this_.

To be a part of _his_ child's life.

But she's been mistaken before. 

Any thoughts of him being there for her, holding her hand through it all, cradling _their_ newborn;

they're swept away.

By a tidal wave that brings forth emotions she's not ready to deal with.

Her stomach rolls and no amount of ignoring it will delay the inevitable; 

She bolts, running for the bathroom, finding herself exactly where she'd been only two hours earlier, tears stinging her eyes while acid stung her throat. 

With one key difference. 

There's a hand on the small of her back, warm, comforting, _another_ at the back of her head, helping keep the short strands from falling into her face. She retches and sobs and feels absolutely horrid. Her body is no longer her own, she has no control, can't even maintain composure for longer than minutes at a time.

_It shouldn't be like this._

Later, she'll blame it on the hormones, but as she lifts her head up, brushing her mouth with the back of her hand, she turns, staring into the face of the man who had brought all this uncertainty into her life, and is overcome with a flare of rage.

"This is all your fault, you fucking bastard," she seethes.

To say that he looks shocked at her outburst would be an understatement. His mouth falls open, jaw hanging, eyes widening and she wonders if he'd really been so clueless this entire time, or he's only just making the revelation now. She leaves him there, kneeling, gaping like a fish as she flushes away the remnants of her meagre breakfast and moves to wash out her mouth. 

Water does little to erase the acrid taste, so she uses mouthwash, feeling it burn the insides of her cheeks and tongue before she spits it out, and splashes her face with cool water, feeling just the slightest bit more _human_. When she turns back around, she finds that Sam hasn't moved an inch, kneeling right where she left him, looking quite dazed and confused. Feeling just the slightest bit of pity on him, she holds out her hand. He stares at it for longer than one normally might, before folding his fingers around hers, deliberate with his motions. 

He pushes _himself_ up off the ground, not putting any weight on their clasped hands, and she feels a small swell of affection.

It's hard to stay angry at a man like him. 

She heads back to her bedroom, sits down on the edge of the bed and is shocked when he doesn't take a seat beside her. No, he crouches, kneeling by her feet, now taking _both_ her hands in his.

_"How long?"_ he asks- seeking confirmation.

"Forty-six days," she whispers, feeling the tears pool in her eyes. The number has a special meaning for _them_ , as _Claire_ and _Jamie_ , and now…

"Am I… are _we_?"

There's a light in his eyes, _hope_ and it dawns on her that her earlier assumptions had been wrong. 

He _wants_ this. 

Swallowing, she slowly moves her hands from within his grasp, takes his left hand, unfurling his fingers. Staring into his stormy blue eyes, she pulls him towards her, until his palm rests against her belly, fingers outstretched. There's nothing to _feel_ yet, she's always been curvy and the small swell is no larger than it normally is, but she sees the fascination in his eyes as his hand cups her.

"Do you even have to ask, _daddy_?" she whispers, voice cracking. 

The tears begin to fall then, both of them, crying and crying. He moves to cup her face with both hands, thumbs struggling to brush away the continuous silvery streams that run down her cheeks. Behind the waterworks, there's joy and laughter. 

She finds herself leaning down towards him as he tilts his head up towards her. They're so close she can see him clearly, even through the tears, and sees when he pauses, suddenly looking very serious.

"You know how I feel about you, Cait. I said it back then and I'll say it again. I would do anything for you, you and our babe. But I need to know… do you want _me?_ "

His uncertainty breaks her heart. Even now, celebrating this news, that they've created _life_ , he doesn't know where he fits into her life. It's her fault, she knows, and she doesn't want any more misunderstandings between them. 

Exhaling, she drags the back of her hand against the line of his jaw, brushing his stubble with her knuckles. Eyes open, she leans in, seeing his sharp intake of breath, his tongue darting out to wet his lips, before she kisses him.

They've done it a thousand times before, but it's different now.

Different to when they'd just met, kissing so strangers, trying to prove themselves worthy to others.

Different to when they'd practiced before rehearsals, between takes, on camera.

Different to that night, when she'd gone against her better judgement and invited herself back to his hotel room. 

_"I love you,"_ she whispers against his lips, feeling him smile against her. She rests her forehead against his, closing her eyes and just rebelling in the sensations coursing through her body. He doesn't need an invitation now, his free hand gravitating naturally to her middle, resting over their little surprise.

_Their miracle._

**Day 87**

Sam has _moved in_ , unofficially. 

Correctly assuming that Caitríona would be more comfortable in her own home, even if she'd once shared it with another man, he'd packed up a bag with all of his valuables and essentials and invited himself to stay with her. 

She'd rolled her eyes at him, questioned whether he was making the right decision, and then supervised as he unpacked his belongings. 

His toothbrush, sitting in a cup next to hers. 

His keys, in her eclectically shaped bowl by the front door. 

His laptop, charging on the desk of _her_ study. 

It should be scary how quickly he's situated himself into her life, but the truth is, he's _always been there_. They'd even shared a trailer in the beginning, awkwardly learning to navigate around one another. This isn't a beginning for them;

it's the next step. 

He likes to sit on the toilet, with the lid closed of course, and watch her as she goes about her morning routine, which now involves considerably less puking, thanks to a special tea he'd sourced _just for her_. 

She's just finished cleansing her face one morning, skin free of makeup, evident dark circles beneath her eyes when he moves behind her, resting his chin on her shoulder. 

"You're glowing," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the juncture between her neck and shoulders, making her shudder in his arms.

"Of course _you_ would say that."

She rolls her eyes a bit, but can't stop the smile on her face.

"Have I ever lied to you?" he asks, pulling her closer, until her back is moulded to his front and she can feel the distinct shape of his cock pressed against her arse. Not quite up for a quick morning shag, too tender and sore and _tired_ , she allows her head to fall back, resting on his shoulder. 

"You told me you were happy for me at my wedding," she murmurs, holding her hand up to the light. She doesn't even miss the weight of her ring, it hadn't stayed long enough to make a mark on her life.

"What would you have done if I told you the truth? Run away with me?"

His breath is hot against her ear, and she laughs at the thought.

She doesn't know how _past-Caitríona_ would have reacted to such a proposition, but thinks it wouldn't have ended well for them. 

"I don't think I was ready yet," she replies, not elaborating, but he understands well enough. There's been distinct moments in their _relationship,_ where they could have taken the plunge, moved into a new and terrifying phase together, but each time one of them had hesitated. He's always known she was worth waiting for and now- he moves a hand to her midsection, resting it over the still-barely there swell of their unborn child- he knows they'd waited for a reason.

They're both ready now, for _whatever_ may come their way. 

**Day 98**

They don't buy one another gifts for Christmas, but fill the house with decorations and festive cheer, too elated to contain their joy. 

A black and white ultrasound sits front and centre on their mantle. Captured at their twelve week scan, when they'd held each other's hands tightly as the doctor checked on the progress of their baby. He'd kissed her then, breathing out in relief against her lips as they were informed their little one was doing very well. 

They rejoice in being together, despite all else that's happening in the world around them, for once focusing on _themselves._

_Their happiness._

Despite swearing off carpets for the rest of their lives, after _that_ love scene which had left them both covered with patches of red where their skin had been rubbed right off, they make love on the plush rug by the fire, and think about how in a years' time, they'll no longer be two.

**Day 106**

They're forced to announce their news earlier than they would have liked, when Cait's costumes have to be resized for the third time in two months. It's far past the customary three-month mark, but they're both _older_ and Sam is overly anxious, unwilling to let her lift a finger when she doesn't need to. 

To their surprise,

No one is… _surprised._

The congratulations they receive from cast and crew alike are genuine, enthusiastic and they both quietly wonder whether their news would have been met so positively had it impacted the filming schedule. It reaffirms their mutual belief that their _timing_ had been just right.

As if the stars themselves had aligned.

They still make an effort to keep things on the down low, both valuing privacy and discretion from those around them. He keeps up his social media posts, always using plain backgrounds to conceal his change in location and she swaps out gin for water and beer for apple juice whenever she posts photos, videos or participates in streams online.

_Secrets, not lies._

**Day 112**

As with every morning since he's woken up by her side, arms wrapped around her expanding belly, he scoots down to greet their child. With loose fitting clothing, no one could even tell she was pregnant, but he had the privilege of seeing how her body changed.

Her curves filling out, edges softening, in particular her breasts and arse. And while a very primal part of him appreciated these changes, seeing the curve of her middle where their future son or daughter is sleeping fills him with an incomparable joy.

He whispers against her skin, in English, because Cait speaks more Gaelic than he can even fathom. 

She's never been a morning person, and now, basically confined to _their_ home, she sleeps in more than ever. He leaves her there, splayed against the sheets, _his_ shirt rucked up over her belly, and goes for a run. His usual podcasts and workout playlists have been swapped out for segments about parenting, how to be a better father.

He would be there for his child, despite his own upbringing. 

Sometimes he's gone for an hour, or longer when there are groceries to pick up, an odd mish-mash off ingredients to satisfy Cait's cravings. He's careful to never linger outside for too long, not wanting to risk what had happened when she'd woken up without him one morning.

He'd returned home to find her in tears, bawling into the pillows, utterly miserable and abandoned. They'd laughed it off afterwards, her cursing at her rampant hormones and him not daring to say a word that might lead him to spending a night in the guest room.

All things considered, this pregnancy hasn't been too rough on either of them. It helps, being home and being _together_. Cait's cravings aren't all that _disgusting_ either, nowhere near rivaling the appalling combinations he'd read about online. She always wants the same thing in the morning, a preference that throws them both back down memory lane, to the earliest of days, when they'd not been afforded much of a choice in meals.

Avocado with a poached egg.

She'd been disappointed when he insisted on serving the dish up with the egg yolk cooked all the way through, reading off articles about the danger of raw foods, but relented, wanting the best for their child. 

He hums softly and very much off-key, preparing a green smoothie and always trying to find a new and exciting way to plate up one overly-poached egg and half an avocado. 

"You don't have to bring me breakfast every morning, you know," she murmurs, rubbing at her eyes with the back of one hand as she sits up in bed, letting him fuss like a mother hen.

"I'll wait on you hand and foot, every day till the baby comes and every day thereafter, for as long as you'll have me."

It's nowhere near the cheesiest declaration of love he's made this far, doesn't even come close. But she blushes anyway, leaning over to give him a great big kiss. While she eats, he reads through the app he'd downloaded, comparing their baby to whatever fruit or vegetable could be used to approximate a size.

"Did you know our baby is the size of an avocado?" he asks, thoroughly amused. She snorts, rolling her eyes and he moves down on the bed, resting his chin on her hip.

"Our wee avocado," he says, drunk on happiness.

"We're not calling our baby an avocado," she tells him firmly.

_The name sticks._

**Day 140**

Sam cries when he feels the baby move for the first time.

They're five months into this, half-way through, and are relaxing on the sofa one night watching trashy reality television when he notices it for the first time. 

She's lying on her side, head in his lap, eyes closed and luxuriating at the feeling of his fingers carding through her hair. His other hand rests protectively over her belly, where it's almost permanently resided since the beginning. It's a slow day, all days now are it seems, but she doesn't mind it, enjoying the time she has with the two she loves most in the world. 

The volume on the telly is low, and they're not watching so much as _being_ together. She's beginning to doze off when she feels the fluttering in her belly, stronger now than before, and she grabs his wrist, moving his hand down to where she feels the sensation the most. 

He doesn't make a sound, his hand cupping the swell of their child with reverence, but she feels a teardrop fall on her bare shoulder, and allows him this moment. 

**Day 192**

It's amazing what a pair of sunglasses and a baseball cap do for anonymity. And though the world is slowly getting back to normal, they don their facemasks as an extra layer of protection.

No one gives them a second look.

They take a stroll through the local park together, hand in hand, revelling in the normality of being out in public together, with no fear of being seen, chased down and asked for favours.

_If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?_

She wonders that of people in the media with their fans sometimes. It's difficult to make meaningful connections, to share things with anyone, no matter how sweet they may seem, with the knowledge that such things may end up all over the internet before she has a chance to process it. 

They're indistinguishable from any other couple that might be taking a walk together, and she knows that it's partly to do with the fact that no one knows to look for them, together. While her divorce had been finalised earlier in the month, it's most definitely not public knowledge, and she and Sam have both done their best to keep up normal appearances. 

It's a little annoying to angle her camera so that it only shoots her above the shoulders but no one suspects a thing.

**Day 224**

By the time Sam's 41st birthday rolls around, Caitríona is beginning to feel a little like a whale. The baby has inherited _both_ their heights and is measuring larger than the norm at thirty-two weeks. 

She doesn't have issues with her body, not with Sam singing praises of her pretty much every waking moment. His gaze always lingers over her, and they've probably had sex in every room, on every plausible surface of their home now. 

On the morning of his birthday, she's _determined_ to surprise him. 

He'd been insistent on no presents, claiming that she and the baby were gift enough, and while she's one hundred percent certain that he means exactly what he says, she's always been a little bit stubborn.

If he wasn't willing to accept a physical present, she'd just need to give him a _physical_ present. 

She'd gone to bed early the night before, leaving him a little concerned. 

"Are you sure you're feeling alright?" he asked, several times, until she silenced him with a kiss and told him to leave her to get some rest. Her plan is halfway to success when she manages to rouse before him in the morning, quietly extricating herself from his grip, shoving the giant body pillow that helped her sleep into his arms instead. 

She almost struggles to conceal a bark of laughter when he curls around it, spooning it as he would with her own body.

The satin nightdress she'd kept hidden in the guest room for weeks now is retrieved in silence, and she slips it on quite victoriously, having purchased the garment two sizes up to accommodate her changing figure. It's a deep shade of purple, a stark contrast to her pale skin, and held together by a single bow tied beneath her breasts. She adjusts it, making sure it'll be easy enough to untie so he doesn't resort to tearing the entire thing off her body. Checking her reflection in the mirror, she brushes her hair, now falling half-way to her shoulder blades, and spritzes on a mild perfume. 

Sam is still passed out when she returns, not-quite-gracefully healing herself onto the bed and straddling his body, removing the pillow from his arms and tossing it to the ground. He begins to stir from the commotion, eyes slowly fluttering open, his dazed smile morphing into an intense stare, filled with desire. 

"Happy Birthday," she sing-songs, groaning lightly when he grips her hips, bucking up against her, more than ready to get the show on the road. She smirks, shaking her head and draws his hands up the ribbon, keeping her body concealed. It takes him a moment to catch up and she doesn't blame him, he'd been running himself ragged trying to keep her happy, fulfilling her every request. Just last week he'd driven an hour to pick up an order from her favourite sandwich shop, never complaining, always complying. 

When he does realise that _she's_ the gift he's supposed to be unwrapping, he growls, low in his throat. 

He pulls at the ribbon, slowly, watching as it comes undone, as the fabric falls away. She shrugs off the straps, letting the satin slip against her skin, quickly tossing it to the side. He sits up, keeping a firm grip on her and then leans forward, brushing a kiss across the top of her bump. 

She knows what he's thinking of.

_A room shrouded in blue._

_A scene they'd both fought for._

_A moment so intimate it frightened her_.

She'd ribbed him about it then, they'd hiked in interviews, that he had a wee bit of an obsession with the baby bump. At the time, she hadn't quite realised that it wasn't exactly that which fascinated him. He'd imagined _her, Caitríona_ , carrying _their_ child.

Not a thing he could have admitted at the time.

Not something he's admitted to her now.

But she _knows._

They make love, slow and quiet but with all the same intensity that accompanies all their intimate moments. Later, after a serious nap, she bends over, displaying her bare hindquarters and he takes her from behind, one hand on her hip, the other on her heavy breast, her belly brushing against the mattress with each thrust. 

Despite his protests, she kneels in the shower, taking him in her mouth, hands roughly playing with his balls. He spills himself between her lips and then washes both of them off before sweeping her off her feet and into bend. It doesn't take much coaxing for her to splay her legs open, allowing him free reign of her _honeypot._

He whispers the word with her thighs on either side of his head and she reaches down and swats his hand, uncontrollably laughing at him. Of course, the laughter dies on her lips as he begins to devour her, teeth gently grazing her clit before delving his tongue between her damp folds. When her ankles dig into his back he groans against her centre, the sound reverberating through her body and triggering a climax like she's never quite experienced before. He lifts his head up, lips glistening and they breathe heavily while watching one another.

There's the slightest bit of disbelief that whatever it is that's between them, is _this_ mind-blowing. 

**Day 263**

Their child's nursery is painted in neutral colours, mostly whites and greys, allowing the natural brightness of the room to shine through. The bassinet has been set up in their own bedroom and they're more than prepared to welcome their not-so-wee avocado into the world. 

They're set to resume filming by September, starting with scenes featuring _all_ other characters bar the two of them. It feels a little irresponsible with the two of them so producers, to have taken such a step back from the process, but they have other priorities now. They still have much input in the structure of the show, but are watching from the sidelines as the long awaited day grows nearer.

They occupy their days child-proofing the house, which Cait thinks is entirely unnecessary, sending as the baby won't be up and about for a while yet, but Sam _insists._ At night, they lie together and he whispers stories of how they first met, the sound of his voice pulling both mother and child into a gentle slumber.

**Day 280**

Their child has a respect for time and punctuality that Caitríona herself hadn't possessed when she first met Sam, bursting into the audition room late and breathless. 

"I fell in love with you then," he'd later told her.

She'd returned the sentiments but admitted that her feelings were perhaps not quite as strong upon their initial meeting. 

Just past midnight at the beginning of her fortieth week of pregnancy, she begins to cramp a little. It's mild, nothing alarming, but she knows, deep within her gut _(and contracting uterus)_ that today is the day she'll become a mother. 

It doesn't happen in quite the way she imagines. 

She's able to ignore the contractions for the most part, they're dull and uncomfortable but not quite painful just yet. Her appetite is gone though, and she fears it may send Sam into a frenzy if she tells him.

It isn't breakfast he comes bearing when he enters the room not twenty minutes later. There's a box in his arms that he's handling rather delicately, and she raises a brow at him, wondering what on earth he's planned. 

"A gift, for you and our wee avocado," he says, depositing the box beside her in bed. She tries not to judge him with too much skepticism as she lifts the lid and is met with a sight that has tears rushing to her eyes. 

It's a tiny ball of black and white fur, one that begins mewling quite helplessly so she picks it up and lifts it into her arms. 

"I thought it would be nice for them to have a companion, until we get started on our second wee vegetable."

She doesn't have it in her to roll her eyes at him, just holding the wee furball against her chest, letting it nuzzle at her nightgown. 

"What's it's name," she asks after a bit, feeling the purrs reverberating against her skin.

"Why don't you take a look at the collar and see for yourself."

He's watching her intently as she holds the kitten up, ignoring it's yowling protests at seemingly being examined so closely. The _collar_ is in reality a piece of red ribbon, tied loosely around the kitten's neck.

And in place of a name tag;

A diamond ring. 

"I know we're doing this all backwards," he begins, and she shakes her head, smiling through the tears. Hands trembling, she untied the ribbon, allowing the ring to slip and rest ok the centre of her palm, the simple diamond glimmering, a single ray of sunlight slipping in form between the curtains and bouncing off the gem.

_"Yes",_ she tells him, watching the surprise and elation battle for dominance across his features.

"I haven't even asked the question yet," he grumbles, picking the ring up between two fingers and eyeing it with scrutiny. 

"Well hurry up and ask the damn question," she demands, and he laughs at how eager she is.

"I've been yours since the moment we first met. Will you be mine, for the rest of time?"

She's about to answer then she feels another wave of pain, this time stronger, accompanied by a not so gentle trickling between her legs, dampness spreading beneath her. Pursing her lips, she forces a smile and nods, waving her hand in his face, gesturing for him to hurry up. Not quite taking the hint, he presses a gentle kiss to her fingertips and then knuckles, before slowly slipping the ring onto her finger. 

"Not that I'm complaining about your answer, but why the rush," he muses, moving up on the bed to kiss her. The kitten, having tired of their antics, has curled up on _his_ pillow, and is snoozing away. 

"It seems our wee avocado is ready to meet us," she tells him, brushing her fingertips across his bottom lip, smiling through the dull but throbbing pain in her back when he leaps up, ready to once again wait on her hand and foot. She wonders what he'll say first, what he'll ask. 

She's not surprised in the slightest when he hurries back to her side and captures her lips in a gentle kiss.

"I love you."

"I'll be sure to remember that when I'm threatening to have you castrated," she responds.

He's not fazed by it at all.

**Day 282**

Their _not-so-wee_ avocado as it turns out, is a little girl, with wisps of light brown hair and the biggest blue eyes. She favours Cait much more so than Sam, but he doesn't mind it so much.

In fact, it's what he'd hoped for, a little lass as beautiful as her mother. 

They bring her home after a day and a half in hospital, and find themselves obsessing over her every movement. The barest wrinkle of her nose, her flailing limbs, the rise and fall of her chest and even each and every fluttering of her lashes. 

She doesn't leave their arms, either curled up feeding against her mother or asleep on her father's bare chest, flourishing with every minute of skin on skin. 

They name her Alina. 

It suits her well, for she is the _light_ of their lives.

**Day 300**

The first few weeks are spent in almost complete isolation, within a bubble serenity and happiness and their little family. 

But they know it can't remain that way forever, hiding away from the world and all that goes with it. 

From experience, people are far less fascinated about things which they already have knowledge of. It's the mysteries that inspire intrigue, which is far from what they want. 

They test the waters first; 

Cait posts an image of Sam, _wee Bertie_ perched on his shoulder, captioned:

_my boys xx_

They're bombarded by questions of course, but remain quiet, switching off once more and letting things settle for a little bit first. They publish statements asking for people to respect their privacy, bide their time for a little while longer.

**Day 365**

The day before they're due to be back at work for pre-production meetings, they take the plunge.

Sam posts an image of Cait with Alina curled up against her chest, reading through a script for season six, captioned:

_my girls xx_

_365 days ago, the stars aligned once more and my life changed forever._


End file.
